


These Violent Delights

by SilverWalnut



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016), Westworld (TV)
Genre: Faraday is now a Blacksmith, Host Everyone, M/M, Robots, Slow Burn, The One Where They're Robots And Don't Know It, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverWalnut/pseuds/SilverWalnut
Summary: Faraday wasn’t sure that what was happening right now was really happening. He knew it was early, way too early for normal society to be functioning yet, but he’d always been an early riser. He pinched himself just to be sure but, no, he definitely wasn’t dreaming. So what he was looking at was actually happening . And he was going to have to deal with it.Dammit.Faraday surveyed the empty main street of Sweetwater before tapping the guy on his shoulder.“Hey buddy, you mind not pissing in my barrel?”orThe One where they're all Hosts and Partake in Regular Memory Wipes





	

“It was - magnificent.”

Click.

“Got it. Okay, Corkery? Will you bring Emma back to Rose Creek? We should have enough to finish the ending.”

The blonde man, Corkery, took off his headphones and slumped off his chair towards the naked host sitting in front of a small microphone. He unfolded his data pad and keyed some instructions onto it’s interface. 

“You sure you don’t want a go before I bring her down?” asked Corkery with a suggestive leer at his partner. He wiggled his fingers above the data pad. “She’s heading down to cleaning first anyway.” 

Holmberg swung around in his chair in disgust and threw a scrunched up piece of an earlier script at the now laughing man’s head. “Oh fuck off, you sick shit,” he said good-naturedly.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” exclaimed Cork, with a large grin. “Only those squeaky creeps downstairs in livestock management are into that. You can have way more fun than programmed blowjobs. Heard James McDonagh got caught last week with his pants around his ankles. I mean, how do they think no one knows? The walls are made of glass!,” he scoffs. “Anyway,” he adds. “I like a woman who can dance.” He plays around with the pad for a second before raising his shoulders. Corkery held his arms up like a robot and imitated leaned forward and back in a popping motion. Soon, Emma joined him while he danced.

“Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,” he sang monotonously and with a dead stare that was clearly meant to be a caricature of a host. It wasn’t a convincing parody, but Holmberg chuckled all the same. Corkery persisted, now gesticulating wildly and soon Holmberg was wiping his eyes with laughter at the pathetic moves shared between the two, the host copying Corkery’s amateurish moves.

They were laughing so much they didn’t see or hear the door open. 

“Gentlemen, I see we’re having extraordinarily good fun in here,” announced Lee Sizemore, the narrative director, from his position at the door. The man’s British accent dripped with sarcasm and he was leaning on the door jam in a way that looked like he had been there, listening and watching, for a while.

His two employees froze like hosts Sizemore had just ordered them to freeze all motor functions.

Corkery had abandoned his dead eye stare and now held one of mortified horror. Holmberg adjusted his glasses awkwardly on his face. At least he hadn’t been caught murdering a dance move with one of the park’s prized hosts. Speaking of which Emma Cullen was still jerking and twisting limbs stiffly to the silent beat. Corkery stumbled to attention.

“Freeze all motor functions,” he said shrilly. Holmberg had never heard Corkery so panicked. 

Sizemore covered his face with both hands and sighed in exasperation. It was the sigh of a man who was sick of dealing with idiots below him. Ford sometimes made the same sigh, but Holmberg didn’t think Sizemore noticed it was mostly around the narrative director himself.

Holmberg turned to the mortified technician and mocked laughing while silently pointing at Corkery who equally silently mouthed back “Fuck you! What the fuck!” to his friend. 

“Corkery, save it for the staff night,” Sizemore said through his hands to his employee. They turned their attention back to their boss who had given no indication he had seen their interaction. “And get her downstairs,” he added. “Ford’s Magnificent Seven better be wrapped the fuck up by this time tomorrow or you two are doing overtime for the next month. Quit fooling around and get the work done.” 

Corkery turned beet red and apologised quickly. He moved towards the door, Emma in tow, and Sizemore moved aside to let him through. His hands where still clasped over his face, pressing into his eyes. He quickly scrubbed his face and moved towards Holmberg and the recording console he was sitting at. He swatted the microphone Emma had been speaking into along the way. 

Sizemore inspected the recording deck and scanned his eyes to find the play button before selecting it and sitting down in Corkery’s abandoned swivel chair. He crossed his legs and idly swung in the seat while he listened to Emma Cullen’s homely voice resonating from the speakers. He smiled and Holmberg knew that it was because Ford’s storyline was over and not because he was happy with the work they had done. His employee’s were under no illusions that there was no love lost between Ford and the narrative director. Hell, between Ford and nearly the whole department. They did the work, he cast aside their efforts in favour of his own.

The last line played and Sizemore clapped his hands together. He all but leaped out of the chair to lean in close and hover over Holmberg’s shoulder. 

“Okay, that’s perfect. Loved the last line. So…final. Get it down to marketing ASAP. Have them make up their final promo video they want so badly. Seems ridiculous, why show visitors something that they can’t have?”

“I suppose, sir, the Magnificent Seven storyline has been around for thirty odd years and been very popular. Maybe a goodbye promo is good for nostalgia, or something?” guessed Holmberg.

He was reviewing the sound for marketing on his computer but could feel the incredulous stare Sizemore was beaming into the side of his head.

“It’s idiotic is what it’s is. And thank god you don’t work in marketing, Holmberg,” he replied. Sizemore let out another heavy sigh.

“Okay, moving on. The three who survived the last bout at Rose Creek. Where are they now?” 

Holmberg checked their co-ordinates on his computer. “Currently, in Sector 4. Badlands territory. About 12 miles from Sweetwater but currently heading south.” 

“Right, send new co-ordinates to the Control Room. Assign them to Sweetwater like we planned for their new quest installation. Put some bandits in the hills nearby to give them some purpose while we come up with some new storylines to reassign them to. Also, erase the memories of the dead four from Chisholm, the Native and the Mexican like we have with the others. Come up with a generic phrase if they are recognised for their old quest. Something like, ‘It was a long time ago.’ or ‘Lot of good men died that day.’ But only if asked. They don’t need to know anything else. It’ll glitch them. We’ve enough malfunctioning hosts as it is. Are the dead buggers ready for reassignment?”

“Almost, the lab techs say Faraday has taken longer than usual to put together following that last bout with dynamite. He blew himself up again.”

“How am I not surprised in the slightest. Wipe all that hero complex away this time. I know that’s what Ford loved about him.”

“Yes, sir. Horne is already in his new role. Robicheaux is cleaned up and down greeting the visitors at the shuttle station. And Rocks has already been traded over to Umeko’s offices. Bogue, sir, is also back in circulation. We’ve re-cast him as the new Sheriff of Sweetwater and the old Matthew has been reassigned back to his previous role as Emma Cullen’s husband. They currently are dealing with an influx of mysterious cattle murders.”

“Perfect. Everyone’s productive. Exactly what I like to see.” 

Sizemore hummed his delight and pushed back from the tech’s chair, putting his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath and let it out contently. Staring into nowhere for a second with a smile on his face, the narrative director turned and flounced towards the door. 

“Make sure Faraday is ready, ASAP. The blacksmith in Sweetwater just got sent to cold storage and the replacement is not as easy on the eyes as the last one. Put him there, and erase all the gambling and drinking stuff too. The smithy was an honest man, wasn’t he?” he puzzled. 

“Ye-“

“I think so. Can’t remember. Don’t care,” he said loftily. “I’m going to Mesa Gold to forget this whole mess with some martinis and rich birds. Celebrate Ford’s stupid saviour storyline finally being over.”

“Enjoy, sir.”

“And **thank god** we never have to hear that tacky theme tune again,” he added.

“Sir, it’ll be the promo.”

“Shut up, Holmberg.”

The door behind Sizemore shut and the tech finished his orders and sent the sound byte to the marketing team. Tonight, it would be announced to the world that the Magnificent Seven, one of the park’s oldest storylines, was no more. 

\------

“Oy, Chisolm. Weren’t we heading South? We’re heading West now. Where are we going?” 

They had been riding for a solid two hours towards the lowlands to the south. Sometime in the last half hour they must have changed directions. Vasquez must have been really lost in his thoughts not to notice that one. Red Harvest hadn’t said anything. But he could attribute that to the young Comanche’s muted presence. 

“Heading for a little town called Sweetwater. Not far from here,” said Chisholm gesturing to the series of hills in the distance. “Should get there by sundown.”

Vasquez huffed out a slow breath. Sweetwater. Jesus. Sounded boring as shit. He looked around at the miles of desert spread around them, hoping for a fight or a cabrón with gun or an army of cannibals or a funny looking tree or…something. Anything. 

Red Harvest gave him a dead pan look as if sensing his impatience. Vasquez didn’t appreciate it. He was about to tell him so when Chisholm coughed from up ahead. 

“I hear there’s been bandits coming down from the high plains into the town,” Chisholm added innocently. “Seems the good people of Sweetwater are awfully troubled in this trying time.”

Vasquez felt his mood pick up significantly. “Yes, that’s what I’m talking about!” he wooped into the sky. Chisholm laughed, his white teeth glinting in the sunlight. 

“Bastardo astuto,” Vasquez accused. “How long have you been sitting on that?” 

The older man didn’t reply, just trotted on in that impassive way of his. Like someone who knew exactly how the universe was supposed to play out, and exactly where he was supposed to be in it. 

All Vasquez knew was he wanted was a shootout and a drink. Not necessarily in that order. 

The prospect of another adventure sent the weight off his shoulders like a cloak falling to the ground. Something deep down clicked now that he felt there was a plan. A purpose. They could spent the night in the saloon at Sweetwater; drinking, chatting, laughing. It would be like old times in Rose Creek, before the showdown, when the three of them had sat around a small table eating and sharing jokes. He tipped his head back and chuckled at the memory of a joke shared between them. 

“What’s so funny?” asked Red Harvest with a puzzled expression. The Comanche’s English had improved but Vasquez’s translation abilities were beyond this story. He couldn’t remember if the younger man had understood the joke the first time. 

“Hey, amigo,” he called out to Sam. “What was that wisecrack you told back in Rose Creek? About Ethel and Maria? It’s just there on the edge of my mind but I can’t piece the punchline together,” he asked with a hint of confusion. He was sure it was hilarious, so certain just a second ago that he knew the joke. 

“It doesn’t ring any bells to me,” Sam replied nonchalantly. “Must have been someone else at the bar.” He kicked his horse forward into a faster trot at the dip of a hill and Red Harvest tailed him. 

Someone else. Someone else had told the joke. Vasquez was perplexed for a moment. Who had told it? Who was there? Someone else was there. Someone. Who had said that? Someone had said that. Someone.

Ğ̷̢̢̢̲̱̲̫͖̙̫̪̞͂̔̄̒͆͘͝ů̸̼̂̋͆͋e̵̛̘̜̅̀͗͂͂̿͒̒̒̕͝ͅr̷̛̟̻̭̝̜̪̯̈́ō̵̢͕̫̲͚ͅ

\-------

“Sir, a host is stuck in a mind loop in Sector 4. Sizemore recently erased fragments of his core memories. He’s malfunctioning slightly.”

“Reboot him. Erase the memory causing the flaw. Should sort it without us having to call him in. Sizemore messing up our codes as per usual.”

“Yes, sir. Data erased.”

\-------

Vasquez jolted on his horse to catch up with the other two just ahead. Sam turned around to check on him.

“You remember that joke?” asked Red Harvest.

“What joke?” replied the other man. “Oh, you mean your face, muchacho?”

Red Harvest scowls at the horizon to the sound of the Mexican’s howling laughter as they ride on towards the town.

\------

A lazy piano melody fills the air in the saloon. The song is all but ignored but the idle chatter among this watering hole’s clientele is in elevated spirit; harmonious with the tune. Red Harvest looks inquisitively at the unmanned instrument from where they are sitting near a window in the corner of the bar. He speaks in a low voice in his native tongue to his companions. Chisholm nods and translates.

“He ain’t seen one of those before,” he gestures to the automatic piano playing by the door. 

Vasquez couldn’t say if he had either. Sweetwater sure was embracing modern times.

He walked to the bar, but it was crowded at this time in the evening. Sounds and smells waft at him from all angles. Dust rained down from above him in small flakes as the floorboards rattled. Least some people were having fun tonight, he thought. A voice pipes in at his shoulder as he raises his voice and asks the bartender for a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. 

“Well, well, you’re not from around here, are you?” 

Vasquez turns and meets the dark brown eyes of who he assumes is the madam of house. She’s leaning against the bar, holding a glass of port and eyeing him appreciatively. He can tell it’s her usual perch, and a good one. You can survey the whole room from her position. This woman knows exactly what’s going on in her establishment. 

She once again meets his eyes. The small glass of port held delicately in her gloved hand barely sloshes as she gestures to a group of ladies waiting on the stairs on the other side of the room. 

“Any interest in my wares? We have one or two senoritas, if you’d be so inclined,” she suggests, emphasising that last part. “Or maybe you’d like to gift your friends over there. That Indian certainly looks wet behind the ears in my department.”

Vasquez laughs at that. “You’re observant. I’ll give you that,” he says and takes his drinks and glassware form the bar. Without another look in her direction he walks back to his table.

He can’t say he’s not tempted. It’s been a long time since he’s had any company in his bed. A life on the road doesn’t really allow for you to settle down. And the last fuck he’d had ran for the sheriff the minute she recognised him from the wanted posters. So, excuse him if he’s feeling a little jaded towards small town folk and their whorehouses. 

Although.

There’s lovely green-eyed beauty right at the end of the stairs that’s really starting to pique his interest. He watches her as he approaches his friends. Her light brown hair is long and wavy, reaching right down to the curve of her hip. She’s got a mischievous look on her face that reminds him of good times. Their eyes lock across the bar and she winks. 

He takes a deep gulp of the whiskey straight from the bottle. Maybe he’s very tempted. 

Vasquez pours the amber liquid in the glasses when he sits down at the table. Sam is already chatting to some old drunk who’s spilling all the details on the bandits up in the high plains. Red Harvest is watching the crowd. His hand is tense on his thigh, as if he’s waiting for something to happen. 

“Relax, amigo. You’re in good hands here,” he tells the younger man. He doesn’t know how he knows that, he just knows. “No one even blinked an eye at you.”

“Don’t you find that strange?” he once again surveys the room. Vasquez can tell he isn’t nervous but he’s definitely not leaving his guard down. “When have I walked into a bar and not been challenged since I’ve known you these last few weeks?”

Red Harvest continues to eye the crowd warily. 

Vasquez supposes it is quite odd. But the Comanche man isn’t exactly in full regalia tonight. He’s at least acquired a gun and he’s not wearing any of his face paint. But when he thinks back, they’ve definitely been confronted for less. 

Vasquez too turns to eye the patrons. No one around them seems to have any interest in their group. The bar is loud with the sound of drunken banter and everyone seems to be focused on themselves or their friends, but mostly the prostitutes. Crowded around the table nearest to them, however, is a group of four men and one woman. Two of them are so engrossed in conversation, to the inclusion of the others, that it’s no wonder they might not have noticed the three men sit down near them. 

“Look, Martin, we know the computer industry is booming, surely it would only profit us to take advantage of that, swoop in and seal the deal with Appl-“

“Oh my god, can we please stop talking business! I didn’t come here to be bored to death by you two nerds,” the man to Martin’s left exclaims. He takes his hat off and dramatically thuds his head on the table a few times. He then sits up, puts his hat back on, slaps the table for good measure then sticks his hands up into mock guns and points them at his companions. 

“Shots?”

Vasquez and Red Harvest look at each other in confusion. The man gets up and hastily walks towards the bar. 

Is he going to start shooting? Vasquez feels a prickle of excitement in the back of his chest. He puts his hand on his gun and Red Harvest does the same. But the man just orders some drinks and walks back to his table holding a tray with around ten small glasses of clear liquor in them. 

Vasquez knew this town was going to be boring as shit. 

Then, to everyone’s surprise, the man stops at their table. Right between Red and Vasquez. His tray wobbled and some of the liquor spilled over onto Vasquez’s lap. 

“Idiota estúpido!” Vasquez yelled angrily. 

“Sorry man, sorry. But, oh my god!” The man ignores Vasquez’s glare and gestures to his table. “Look guys! A Native American! Our first one!”

A cheer rises up from the nearby table and Vasquez turns his glare on them instead. When he turns back the man has his arm around Red’s shoulder and Vasquez wonders why it’s still attached as the younger man looks down at limb like it personally offends him. Which it does. It personally offends Vasquez too. 

“Do some shots with me!” he demands.

Vasquez doesn’t really know what happens next other then himself and Red Harvest immediately reach down and grab a small glass with the stranger. He tastes the rotgut at the back of his throat before he even has a chance to realise what he’s doing. 

“Que diablos?” he gasps. Why did he just do that? 

The Comanche has a matching look on his face but he’s staring at the empty glass in his hands. 

“Hey, you guys definitely aren’t real, are ye?” 

The stranger then proceeds to reach over and pinch the cheek of the Indian like Vasquez once used to do to his sister’s children. He snarled and reached for his gun. This man assumes too much. 

“Vasquez,” says Sam. “No need for that.”

He’d forgotten Chisholm of even there, so engrossed he had been in his conversation about bandits. His gun is already out though and pointed right between the man’s eyes.

“This man insults us!” he argues. His had doesn’t relax from where it is clutching the gun at it’s target. Vasquez stands and looks down at the man. He towers over the him and crowds into his space. This close to his face, Vasquez can smell the liquor off of him and watch the sweat collect on his upper lip. He drags the gun menacingly down the quivering stranger’s face. The tray that the man still holds in his left hand rattles and Vasquez smirks.

“Hey-hey, man. I didn’t mean nothing by it! We’re cool man! We did shot together!” he pleads. Vasquez thinks he might cry. 

A roar of laughter can be heard from the table beside them. The woman stands up holding her side with an amused look on her face. She approaches the man and claps her hands on his shoulder before steering him away. She brushes Vasquez’s gun aside like it was nothing.

“Sorry, amigos. He’s an asshole. Don’t mind him. Enjoy your night!” 

The woman sits the man down at their table; it’s occupants still chucking and wiping their eyes. “They’re hosts! I didn’t think they could attack us!” he’s protesting. “You were hardly ‘attacked’,” laughed another man. “It’s not like they can actually shoot you, idiot.” That set the group off again into more peals of laughter. 

Vasquez didn’t sit down again. This town was putting him in a bad mood. He grunted angrily at the way that woman has cast his gun aside like it was nothing. He sheathed his gun and drained the whiskey in his glass in one go. Vasquez didn’t even say goodbye to his two friends as headed in the direction of that green-eyed whore by the stairs.

“Meet you back at the inn later,” Chisholm called after him.

“Don’t wait up,” he replied.

\-------

Faraday wasn’t sure that what was happening right now was really happening. He knew it was early, way too early for normal society to be functioning yet, but he’d always been an early riser. He pinched himself just to be sure but, no, he definitely wasn’t dreaming. So, what he was looking at was actually happening. And he was going to have to deal with it. 

Dammit.

Faraday surveyed the empty main street of Sweetwater before tapping the guy on his shoulder.

“Hey buddy, you mind not pissing in my barrel?” 

The drunk, and he was clearly out of his mind, turned his face to look at Faraday. His eyes were glazed over and completely unseeing. He mumbled some nonsense before tying up his trousers and stumbling to face the man. 

“Voy a orinar donde quiero,” he slurred. 

Faraday wasn't even going to attempt to understand what that meant. 

“Oh good, a Mexican.” he sighed. He dropped the bucket he had come out to fill beside the barrel and put his hands on the drunk to straighten him up against the wall behind it. 

“Where you staying, muchacho?” It was a little patronising, the way he said it, but he didn't think the drunk would pick up on that.

The Mexican replied by attempting to spit on the ground. It failed to reach it’s trajectory and instead drooled down from his lip in a long slobbery trail. His glassy eyes followed the spittle down his chest and landed on his gun, which he drunkenly drew at pointed in Faraday’s general direction. 

Okay, maybe he did pick up on it. Faraday drew back and raised his hands.

“Hey, hey, now no need for that,” he said.

“No te burles de mí, mu…cha…cho.” He punctuated each syllable of the last word with a swing of his gun. It wasn't aiming anywhere near him now. 

“Oh screw this,” said Faraday. He easily lunged forward and tried to grab the gun off of the befuddled man. But the Mexican fought him awkwardly and in the scuffle the gun slipped out of their hands and dropped decisively with a neat plop into the barrel. The barrel of pissy water. The drunk cried out and splashed the water redundantly, covering them both in the contents. Faraday ground his teeth and willing his patience not to run out. 

The drunk burst into a litany of garbled Spanish pointing both at the barrel and grabbing the front of Faraday's now wet shirt. Faraday didn't want a fight so rather than deal with this guy he decided to head back inside and stoke up the fires. He could take his anger out on the coals. Maybe chop some wood. Anything to help him not take his irritation out on this dumbass on his doorstep. Maybe he’ll be gone by the time he comes back. Or maybe the deputy will have taken care of him. 

He was almost at his workshop door when his bucket went flying into the wood in front of him and cracked right down the side. 

Furious, he turned to the idiot behind him. It would be an easy fix, the bucket, but it would still take time out of his day to do something he hadn't intended to do in the first place. 

"You'll have to pay for that," he spat.

“Oh guero, I have no money. Spent it all fucking a whore with eyes just like yours last night.”

Faraday stopped and stared at the other man. This was clearly said to get a rise out of him. His whole body tensed up and his fist clenched into balls. It was working.

“What did you say to me?” he demanded with barely concealed rage.

The man was smiling lecherously at the blacksmith from where he was now leaning up against the barrel his gun had just dropped into. 

“I said,” he leered. “That I fucked a whore as pretty as you last night. So, I have no money for your stupid bucket.” He made sure to try enunciate every word.

“See that’s what I thought,” said Faraday. 

So he walked over and punched that asshole right in jaw.


End file.
